Bar Crawl Read online

  Minutes turned into hours, and before I knew it, it was time to close the deal. Leslie would be going home with me, and Lex would take her friend. It worked out for them, they’d murmured between themselves, since Lex and I were roommates and they could still “keep an eye on each other.”

  As they wandered off to the restroom before we left the bar, I found myself looking over my shoulder. It was only then that I’d remembered the object of my look back. Frankie. And she was gone.

  Damn it.

  I had no idea how long ago she’d left, or what she saw of me before she did. Whatever it was, it was highly unlikely to help my chances with her should I be lucky enough to see her a third time.

  As I led Leslie to my car—not having to plan the rest of our evening, since it was pretty much on autopilot—I thought about what my next move with Frankie might be. I couldn’t leave seeing her again up to chance. And, for some reason, I couldn’t let her think that I was actually the guy she saw play acting in the bar. Maybe it was her blatant disregard of me that had me excited initially—an old fashioned game of cat-and-mouse was always fun. But, more than that, she seemed to always be paying attention while I was playing with the band. Sure, most people bop along to songs—especially to their favorites—but I’d caught her noticing changes we’d made to certain songs. She’d grin at an extra solo or widen her eyes at a complex drum solo we’d thrown into an otherwise simple or well-worn song. She noticed.

  But what was I willing to tell her about who I really was?

  Frankie

  A week later, I was at my post amidst the stacks of the public library. Working in the quiet solitude of my mecca was the best way I’d found to unwind after a stressful week. Teaching English was hard. Really hard. However, I was thankful my teachers had done what they did to open my eyes to the beautiful world of this language, and I always aimed to pass that down to my students.

  Language is powerful, and walking among millions—maybe billions—of words as I re-shelved books was far from overwhelming. Quite the opposite, actually. It was comforting. Words were my people.

  I liked slightly dusty hardcovers that had threads in their binding the best. While my e-reader allowed me to carry all of my favorite books at once, no matter where I went, there was something to the feel and the weight of an actual book that couldn’t be replicated by technology.

  “Hey!” A loud whisper startled me as I ran my fingers across the worn, embossed title of The Other Boleyn Girl.

  “Shit!” I loud-whispered, whipping around as my heart pounded.

  There, in the early light of that Saturday morning that streamed magnificently through the stained glass window, stood CJ. The drummer. The pig. The drummer pig.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He put his hands in his pockets and gave a little shrug.

  I cleared my throat, scraping together equilibrium as I went along. “Didn’t think you could come out in the daytime. Doesn’t the light hurt your eyes?” I brushed past him and wheeled my cart to the next set of stacks, wondering what in the love of God he was doing in Hyannis, and at the library.

  My library.

  “Funny.” He kept his voice respectfully quiet as he followed me. “Told you I’d see you next week.”

  That he had. The determination that had swaddled his voice in the bar the last time I saw him replayed in my ears.

  “You’re late,” I quipped.

  “Huh?”

  “You said you’d see me next week. That was on a Friday. Today is Saturday, so you’re a day into the second week.” I took a deep breath, tucked my hair behind my ears, and resumed my task.

  CJ reached above my head and took down a book. While I could typically navigate around the library blindfolded, with him around I suddenly had no idea which section I was in. I kept my focus on the tiny numbers printed on little white stickers to guide my movements.

  He spoke again when he returned the book to its place. “You’re dressed the same as you were the last time I saw you.”

  I scrunched my eyebrows and eyed him up and down. “So are you,” I said, motioning to his worn, but not tattered, jeans and a t-shirt, snug in the shoulders with a faded design. A shamrock maybe. “What’s your point?”

  CJ crossed one arm over his abdomen and rested his other elbow on it, scratching his freshly shaven chin. His face never held more than a days worth of scruff. “I don’t know that I have a point, other than pointing it out. I thought you were a teacher.”

  “I am.” I scrunched my eyebrows and faced him. “How did you know that?”

  He sighed comically. “You’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you?”

  I stopped what I was doing and rested a hand on my hip. “I’m trying to keep it short to get you out of here faster, just in case, you know, the ceiling crashes down around you.”

  CJ covered a rough snicker with an exaggerated cough. “This isn’t a church.”

  Picking up a book of Emily Dickinson’s earliest poetry, I held the yellowing paper to my nose and took a deep breath, grinning on my exhale. “It’s my church. How’d you find me here, anyway?” In the whirlwind of his towering presence and impossibly good smell, I’d glossed over important details. Like how the hell he knew I’d be here.

  “Middle school English teacher from Albany, New York. Graduated from UMass, completed your graduate work during your first two years teaching…”

  CJ rambled off facts about my professional life as he ran his hands over my blessed sacraments, stopping at Frost, plucking it from its spot. He paused his factoid spiel long enough to flip to the middle of the book, as if he’d been looking for that page all along. His lips moved, but no words came out, then, suddenly, he closed the book and put it back exactly where he’d gotten it from. A satisfied smirk perched on his lips.

  I was growing more flustered by the minute, running out of snarky material to repel him with. “I’ve never given you my last name. How’d you know how to look me up?”

  CJ waved his hand in the air. “The internet is idiot proof, Frankie. Hyannis isn’t that big, and, luckily for me, you work for a public school. I’m not interested in all that stuff, though.”

  “Oh,” I snipped. “You’re not interested in what I do for a living?”

  His smirk turned into a full smile. “Now I am. I just wanted to make sure you were passionate about it. Defensiveness is a good sign.”

  “What if I wasn’t?” I questioned.

  He leaned in closer, and I could feel his breath on my neck. “I’d find something you were passionate about.”

  Swallowing hard, I fought the words on my tongue. I wanted to spit back the things I knew about him. CJ Kane, drummed his way up and down the Cape and across most of New England since he’d been able to work a pair of sticks into something magical. I guessed we were roughly the same age, but from what I could find, he hadn’t gone to college for music, if he even went at all. Really, that was all I knew about him. I couldn’t say for sure if he had a paying job other than the gigs at local bars. Frankly, there was more information on the internet about his wildly successful cousin, Regan. Regan was a professional musician, a violinist—one with a contract with Grounded Sound Entertainment. He’d been raised in Cape Cod, as well, but had professional music training which he was clearly using to his advantage.

  I thought maybe it was best to not mention his cousin, though. In case it was a sore spot. I didn’t want him to think I cared, though, because I didn’t know what he would do with such information. I wasn’t his type, and I was fairly certain he wasn’t mine, though I didn’t really know what mine was.

  With a deep breath, I thought back to the last time I saw him at that Finnegan’s place. “I figured you spent most Saturday mornings exhausted from your Friday night activities.” I paused and raised my eyebrows slightly.

  “I work out.” He grinned in an almost instigating sort of way.

  “I’m working,” was the only thing I could manage to say.

&n
bsp; “Okay,” he conceded. “Meet me for lunch sometime. Next week?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sure. Next week. Now, apparently, you know where to find me.”

  What did I just agree to?

  Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked awkwardly through the long row of shelves, nearly having to turn sideways as they were quite narrow and he was anything but. Once he was out of sight, I lowered my head and exhaled loudly, wondering how a relative stranger I’d seen only a handful of times over the past year could weasel his way into my most private thoughts.

  Three hours later I was through with my shift and ready to head for home. I had a long afternoon of grading essays ahead of me and was looking forward to dialing up my ‘90s internet station, drinking some Diet Dr. Pepper, and getting to it.

  As I opened the back door of the library, I was greeted with gorgeous sunlight. And the sight of CJ resting against the hood of his car, arms crossed and facing the door.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked as I carefully made my way down the stairs.

  “You said you’d meet me for lunch.” He had sunglasses on, but the tone of his voice revealed all of this playful mischief.

  I cocked my head to the side. “And you said next week.”

  He shrugged and gave me a Cheshire Cat-like grin. “I was late last time. Now I’m early.”

  CJ

  I kept my eyes on Frankie’s face as we sat across from each other, waiting for our orders to be called. I knew she’d expect me to be looking anywhere else, and I expected that of myself, too. But she’d turned me down twice already, and I wanted to avoid having lunch thrown in my face as she screamed “Pig!” if she caught me looking at her curves. I’ve had enough of girls’ lunches on my clothes for one lifetime.

  The bitch of it was she did have some banging curves. Those hips were a siren’s call for my hands, but there was more to her than that. Much more. When I’d tried to put the moves on her in a bar in Falmouth a couple of months before, it was like she didn’t take me seriously—the way she sarcastically said “Okay” before rolling her eyes and returning to conversation with her friends. I knew I’d try again, but I had to bide my time.

  “So,” Frankie said somewhat impatiently, “what’s up?”

  I realized that, while I hadn’t been staring at her body, I’d been staring at her face for what must have been an uncomfortably long time.

  “What’s your deal?” I chuckled and leaned back in my chair.

  “My deal?” She scrunched her forehead, causing her freckles to fold in on each other. “You stalked me on the internet, tracked me down at my weekend job, and dragged me to lunch to ask why my deal is?”

  The freckles scattered across her cheeks were soon highlighted red as she seemingly grew flustered. I grinned. I couldn’t help myself.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded softly.

  I shrugged. “Look, I just thought it would be nice to get to know you…”

  “Ha!” Her laugh was so sharp and loud, it caused the people next to us to look up from whatever they were doing. “Get to know me, that’s rich.”

  I pressed my forearms into the table and leaned forward. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She echoed my stance, challenging me as she encroached on my space. “I mean,” she whispered, “it seems that all you’re interested in getting to know about women is how their breasts feel in your hands.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek as she seemed to have read my most intimate thoughts word for word. “Well, look at you, making assumptions.” I swallowed hard, wondering how many times she’d watched me at different bars before I’d noticed her. Once or twice and I might be okay. More than four and I’d be screwed.

  Frankie tilted her head, the light catching some red highlights streaked through her brown hair. “So…you don’t comb the bar after your sets looking for your next date?” She put air quotes around the word “date.”

  Before I could answer, the pimple-faced teenager behind the meat case called our order. We both rose, neither offering to get the other’s food. Once we were seated again, I studied the food in front of her: An enormous salad filled with beans, a crumbled cheese, and nearly every vegetable imaginable.

  “Problem?” she asked, gesturing to her plate.

  “Don’t you want salad dressing?” I was used to watching girls methodically dip their forks into the little dishes of dressing before plunging it into the leaves.

  Frankie stuck a fork full of garden in my face. “It’s on it already. See?”

  She hadn’t asked for the dressing on the side. It seems so insignificant, and I’m aware of that, but that one choice said more about her than anything else I’d seen anyone do on a date. It told me she really didn’t seem to give a shit what I thought. I liked that, and it scared me.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m just used to everyone ordering the dressing on the side when I’m on dates. What the hell is that all about, anyway?”

  She shrugged and chewed slowly, her glossed hips curving around her food. “Calories, I guess,” she admitted once she swallowed. “And, this isn’t a date.” She winked and resumed her meal

  “We’re eating food together, aren’t we?” I challenged.

  She didn’t look up as she picked through her salad. “Sure, but I eat with my coworkers every day, and I don’t consider those dates.”

  I sighed. “Sure, but I don’t typically eat meals with women.”

  Frankie looked up, a horrified and amused look on her face. “Well, lucky me, then. You should brush up on what a date is, though. Don’t stalk the person at work, for one. And, it’s typically nice to offer to pay for the meal.”

  I chuckled. “Would you have let me pay for your meal?”

  “Nope.” She smiled and put a forkful of salad in her mouth.

  Her quick wit excited me, and proved I needed to be on my toes if I was going to make it through even one date—or non-date—with her.

  “You didn’t answer my question, about your bar activities,” Frankie said after a few more minutes of silence.

  I took the final bite of the first half of my BLT and sat back, raking my hand through my hair, grumbling loudly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m someone I’m not. I like women, okay? I love them. And I mainly work in bars, so where else would you suggest I look for them?”

  “It’s not that you can’t look for women in the bar. But why are you always with a different girl? Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

  “Sure, I’ve had—”

  “I mean one at one time,” she interrupted.

  I growled louder, looking to the ceiling. “What do you want from me?”

  “What do you want from me?” She set her fork down and leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms as she waited for my answer.

  Shit.

  “I…I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

  Frankie dropped her arms from across her waist and resumed eating. “Look, CJ, there’s a chance that you’re a decent guy. I’m not basing that on much, but I’d like to assume there’s a chance. The problem, though, is I’m not going to be a character in your personal rom-com where you try to get the girl that turned you down just to validate your masculinity or whatever.”

  Heat rose through my neck and into my cheeks. I couldn’t tell if I was insulted or embarrassed. She was wrong, but I’d need to craft my next words carefully.

  “I think…” I paused and took a deep breath. “I think you know a lot less about me than you think you do.”

  “So tell me something about you that no one else knows,” she challenged. It was a test, and one I’d better pass if I wanted this lunch to lead to another one. The problem was, most of the things people didn’t know about me they didn’t know for a reason.

  I smacked my lips as my eyes widened. “My best friend is a girl. And,” I added in before she could cut me off, “we’ve never slept together. And never will. We’ve been friends since high school and she’s
engaged to my cousin.”

  “Does she have a name? This freak of nature?” Frankie teased.

  “Georgia.” I missed G and Regan like crazy, and was looking forward to their wedding on the beach in Provincetown in a couple of weeks.

  “No one knows she’s your best friend?” Frankie asked skeptically. “Certainly she knows, and at least your cousin knows?”

  “Oh, come on!” I pleaded. “You know what I mean. Do you think anyone in their right mind would think I’d have a girl as a best friend?” I stood on my womanizing reputation as a means to highlight the unlikely nature of this information.

  She grinned. “One you’d never slept with? Not a chance in hell. I guess I’ll accept it.”

  “Now I want you to tell me something.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “What is your name short for? All the stuff on the school’s website had Frankie.”

  She chuckled, setting her fork on her now-empty plate. It was refreshing to watch a woman finish her meal, even if it wasn’t one I’d paid for. “That’s it.”

  “What?” I asked, crumpling my napkin and tossing it on my plate.

  “Frankie is my name. It’s not Francine or Francis or whatever the hell else. It’s…just Frankie. What does CJ stand for?” She eyed me carefully.

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Question and answer time is over. You asked one, and I asked one. That’s the end.”

  She laughed. It wasn’t the sarcastic chuckle I’d become used to during our meal. It was light and airy. “God, is it something horrible? Like Carol?”

  I kept a straight face and widened my eyes slightly, for effect.

  “Oh no.” Her face turned pale as she covered her mouth. “It’s Carol? Shit, I’m sorry!” She lowered her head so her shoulder-length hair covered her face.

  I couldn’t hold out any longer. A laugh broke through my facade, causing her to look up.